N.Y. Boy in L.A.

There are moments when you wish you had a camera (and camera phones don’t count; an epileptic mental patient could display better composition than those things).

My Sunday night was filled with several of those moments.

I had fallen asleep in bed (at 6pm!) while reading "The Confessions of Max Tivoli" when my Nokia went off. Private Caller turned out to be none other than the ever-popular, always-on-the-move Swaga.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.

I admitted how lame I was, caressing my paperback in the lonely comforts of my manly boudoir. After all, "Desperate Housewives" was a repeat and TiVo was taking care of "Grey’s Anatomy."

Matter-of-factly he stated, "You’re coming with me to the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week kickoff show."

Arm twisted. Shower taken. Trendy attire on.

He picked me up within an hour. We drove in his Tercel to Smashbox Studios in Culver City. We circled the block, found a space, and spotted the enormous tent that housed dozens of designers and diet-driven dummy models. The paparazzi was in full force. We made our way through the doors and were immediately directed to the Will Call table. Swaga gave his name to Girl With A Clipboard. She couldn’t find him anywhere on the list for the eight ‘o clock Carlo DeMichelis show. Apparently there were no Ds on the list (Swaga’s last name is Deb); a page appeared to be missing. Girl With A Clipboard told us her superior would be back soon and take care of the problem.

Swaga and I usually joke about using the old "Do you know who I am?" line in situations like these, and it seemed like we were getting close to utilizing it. We were ushered to the side of the table, remaining cool and calm because that’s what you have to be in a moment like this. You have to be patient with the gatekeepers of Trendydom and avoid screaming like a banshee. It’s like a Hollywood Commandment: Thou shall not be obnoxious to bouncers and will-call girls for they will decide your fate.

While we waited, Swaga noticed Andre Gonzalo from "Project Runway" and his guest, a shaggy-haired dancer-type covered in five ‘o clock shadow, going through the same frustrating deal with Girl With A Clipboard. They were placed into our little reject corner.

"Were you a D missing on the list?" I asked the shaved-headed reality celeb.

"I’m a G," he said. And introductions were made.

Superior arrived shortly afterwards; turns out the Carlo DeMichelis show was cancelled. She pulled one of those "There’s nothing I can do about it." However, Andre and his guest, Jaime, were able to get their passes for the nine ‘o clock Louis Verdad show which was celebrating the new fall line. "Come look for us later," Andre said. "If we don’t need these (passes), you can use them."

Our hopes for a fabulous evening were deflating despite Andres’s promising proposal. Swaga and I waited around the tented lobby, admiring the Mercedes-Benz model on display, ignoring the open tequila bar, and praying for the fashion gods to conspire in our favor.

We stood near Andre and Jaime while they stood behind the velvet rope that led to the main tent. We chatted about our respective industries for several more minutes. All of us could not get enough of the people-watching. The large room was a multicultural mess of flavorful individuals - Women who had yet to meet a nip and tuck they didn’t like. Asian punks who wore their mascara with pride. Flamboyant latinos marinating in the latest Burberry. Ebony beauties surrounded by entourages showcasing minimal bling. And sweatshirt-donning dudes who were only there for the smorgasboard of poon.

Matthew Perry walked by, looking uncomfortable, like he had just wrapped up a session with a tranny hooker at the Four Seasons. The guy has some serious baggage under those baby blues. Paris Hilton dashed across the room in a vibrant, puffy gown (like THAT wouldn’t get her noticed), apparently late getting to her seat. Cris Judd was playing it cool by the bar, exchanging words with people who (I’m sure) were mentally tsk-tsking over the fact that he will forever be known as the Former Mr. Jennifer Lopez.

All the "important" people were being seated. The standing-room crowd was lined up, ready with their passes. We had nothing. Our hopes were a withered balloon.

We thought about going back to the will-call table one last time. Girl With A Clipboard was sincerely sympathetic and told us to wait a few minutes to see what she could do. Suddenly, Andre appeared behind us with two passes. He was able to obtain two V.I.P. seating tickets for him and Jaime. Swaga and I took their standing room passes. See what happens when you befriend an allegedly psychotic reality-TV fashion star?

We thanked him from the bottom of our hearts, hopped in line, and were soon filtered into the main tent like the couture-craving cattle we were.

"So diva it hurts."

I expected Carrie Bradshaw and Company to enter behind us and take their seats among the glitterati. Dozens of spotlights shined on the already glowing runway. A dense garden of supercharged cameras were planted by the producer’s booth, ready to sprout their digital petals for the numerous magazines and Web sites that would soon feed all of the famished fashionistas around the globe.

Swaga and I took our spots in the standing area behind the rows of spectators. Directly across from us, sitting in the opposite front row, Paris Hilton and her sister, Nicky, toyed with their Sidekicks. The cinderblock of an arm belonging to a bodyguard blocked most of my view. Next to Nicky sat a raven-haired, clown-faced broad who was desperately trying to play down her age. Who was she kidding, with all of that make-up? The lighting in the room didn’t help either; from twenty feet away, I could still make out all of the blemishes and poorly hidden flaws on her face. I then noticed how long her black hair was…and was that a red Kabbalah bracelet on her wrist?

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Mrs. Demi Moore-Kutcher.

A gasp from Swaga made me break out laughing. I had to focus my eyes elsewhere. Carmen Electra was rapidly talking with another woman down the line. That British actress from "Las Vegas" held tight onto her program, scanning the crowd for a particular someone she would never find.

The lights went down. The electro-rock music started. Applause roared throughout the tent. The androgynous models did their struts in early-80s tweed suits and puffy shirts. The hair was frizzy, the make-up garish, and the handbags were fiercely geometric. There were see-through numbers, wool capri pants, really thick belts, and more really bad hair. Everyone ate it up.

I was sweating from the heat emanating from all the lights in the airless tent. It was time to leave and go home. We never got to say goodbye to the generous Andre and Jaime. We didn’t receive any goodies to take home. All we left with was the surreal, Aquafina-drenched memory that I now leave for you to read and for me to revisit.

This exhausted ship has sailed.

Signing off from my new gig working for the executive producers of three pilots (another story for another chapter),

H.P.M.

"Just get messy in life. At least you know you’re living."  -  Prime

My days see few highlights now as I come close to ripping out what’s left of my hair because my future employment has yet to be determined.

Monday: Watch "The View." Go to the gym.

Tuesday: Go to the library to use the Internet and research jobs. Buy "Harry Potter" and "Jarhead" on DVD at Barnes and Noble with the store credit I possess. Receive my spankin’ new Dell XPS notebook when I pull into my garage (highlight of the month, actually - a belated Christmas/early birthday gift from the ‘rents). Have a "Harry Potter" marathon with Rachel.

Wednesday: Play with my new toy and upload my entire CD collection onto iTunes.

Thursday: Play with my new toy and upload more of my CD collection onto iTunes while enjoying free wireless Internet and completing more job research. Go back to the gym (oh, and watch "Oprah" of course).

Friday: More uploading. More e-mailing. Drive to an interview in West L.A. where I’m told I’m overqualified for the position but will still be considered for better-paying openings when the company expands next month. Stop at Starbucks for a marble mocha macchiato. Drive all the way to friggin’ Canoga Park (read: deep Valley) to meet with Tax Guy (an inspiring session, I must say; dude got me pumped about responsibly managing my finances and saving enough to purchase property by the time I’m 33). Try to get an old lady to buy the leftover ten-dollar store credit I have at Barnes and Noble so I can stuff my wallet with extra cash. Meet Karim and Swaga for dinner in Hollywood. Sigh as I fork over fifteen dollars for eggplant parmigana.

Saturday: The CD uploading continues (boy got mad music). Send out my birthday party Evite to everyone I know in Los Angeles (celebrating at Oasis on La Brea on the 31st).

It’s astounding, isn’t it? Truly fascinating, I know. I just don’t know how I can fit so much into my schedule.

I forgot to mention my Oscar Sunday at Briana’s party. I came in second in the Oscar pool (all that studying paid off, Ma). I won’t go into too much commentary on the awards because wouldn’t that be a blog cliche? Yes, Jessica Alba looked hot (even though she somewhat resembled Gozer from "Ghostbusters"). Yes, Jon Stewart was funny (the cowboy montage was brilliant). Yes, Reese’s speech was gosh-darn sweet (I still think we have yet to see her dark side). And yes, I think George Clooney officially RULES (that speech about being proud to be "out of the loop"? Loved loved loved it). There, I’m over it.

Back to the present: I am sitting at the kitchen table, typing away on my new 60GB baby, feet up, hot cup of green tea by my side, Friday’s episode of "General Hospital" playing on TiVo in the living room. I am taking John Mayer’s advice and enjoying the "great indoors." And what better timing; it’s been unseasonably cold here in the city of haloed beings.

I flip over to MTV (because I’m masochistic like that), and I am blessed with a repeat viewing of the "Real World" premiere. All the cardboard cut-out cast members are splashing in the pool before hitting the bars of Key West, because what else can a bunch of pretty things do on a random weeknight? I find it seriously ironic that the anorexic chick has been cast on the kind of show that gives young girls body-image issues. And of course there’s the overused dialogue: "I don’t wanna be here!" "I am so drunk." "If you didn’t have a boyfriend…" Wink, wink. This is why I stopped following America’s oldest reality gimmick after the New Orleans edition.

Nighttime has now fallen. I am minutes away from a new "SNL." I’ve been online for hours, and yet no one from back East has bothered to IM me. Do we really fall THAT out of touch, so much that we don’t even register the screennames that linger on our buddy lists anymore?

Tuesday, March 14, 2005 - 12:09pm…

The breakfast nook in my kitchen has officially become my own little office. The kitchen table is my desk. Now, I just need obligatory framed pics of the fam and a secretary to abuse, and it will be complete!

The TV is off; too many distractions. Today, I shall work from home, send out some e-mails, polish the draft of my pilot (thanks, Jenn, for installing Final Draft onto my XPS), watch the new "X3" trailer for the umpteenth time on Quicktime, because it’s THAT awesome, and wait for a woman to return my call regarding a job that found ME through Craigslist.

Avoiding the Green Beer Come Friday,
H.P.M.